Thursday, October 21, 2004

Sandwiched In

There is a shopping center near my office. I go there sometimes to browse in the bookstore or slurp down an iced venti decaf soy latte or to buy expensive presents for Hot Wife (who incidentally is not pleased about my last post – sorry, honey). I do not, however, go to this mall to eat submarine sandwiches. But that hasn’t stopped one evil sandwich restaurant franchisee from trying to weigh me down with his unsolicited propaganda every time I go there.

This particular sandwich shop, which uses a former fatass named Jared to promote its foot-long shitbombs, has seen fit to station a day laborer in a yellow visor right at the entrance to the mall. This person is loaded down with a stack of red coupons and it is his job to accost each visitor to the center and shove these coupons into their hands, faces, pockets, rectums, noses or any other exposed orifice. God help you in you’re not wearing pants in his presence.

Granted, this is by no means a unique scenario. Nuisance marketers like this dude are stationed in practically every public place in America. Some even come to your house and offer you literature about how their version of the heavenly father can save your soul from eternal damnation (which clearly illustrates the fact that they haven’t read my blog and thusly learned that my ass is way, way beyond saving, what with the farting and nose-picking and eyebrow-shaving and all). Generally, these pests can be shooed away with a polite “No thanks” or, in the case of the door-to-door religion salespeople, a warning that failure to vacate the premises will result in my turning on the hose and dousing them with blood, which runs red and pure from the garden hose behind them. Works every time. Try it.

But the sandwich guy at the mall is persistent. He’s been listening to too many Zig Ziglar tapes – the ones that say “no” is just a shorter version of “yes.” I wave off his first attempt to hand me coupons and continue my march towards Barnes & Noble.

“But, sir,” he says, following me, “you can get a Zesty Chicken Teriyaki Club combo meal for just $4.99.”

“I already ate, pal.”

“Well, do you have plans for lunch tomorrow?,” he persists.

“No,” I say, turning to face him, “but if you don’t leave me alone right now, I’m going to come back here and eat your children for lunch tomorrow. Now back off, buttface!”

One would think such a harshly worded threat from a skinny, big-nosed Jewish beanpole like me would deter even the most violent marketer, but my counterpart doesn’t blink.

“Oh, that’s a good one, sir,” he says, grinning that fake marketer’s smile. “But maybe someone you work with likes good sandwiches at a great price. Why not take him a coupon?”

This guy is good. Scary good. I realize that I have but two options: a) take the fucking coupon and let him win, or b) raise my game to another level and go home happy. I hate to lose. I choose b. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years on this planet, it’s that nothing scares people away like a good, old-fashioned pretend grand mal seizure.

With that, I drop to the ground, stick my tongue out and start to convulse like a horny poodle on a hairy man’s leg. People around me scream. Someone hollers, “Call 911! This dude’s flatlining!” The sandwich dude’s face turns bleach white. He’s stunned. It’s working!

Finally, he turns around and starts to run away. He’s gone and I’ve won the battle, but I remain on the ground convulsing to sell the act a little more (but what I really want to do is direct). I think the paramedics might arrive soon and wonder to myself if I should get up soon, lest I be shocked with the defibrillator or given a shot of adrenaline in the chest like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction.

But just as I’m about to get up and dust myself off, the sandwich dude reappears. He pushes his way through the crowd and stands right above me for a moment.

Then he stuffs one of his coupons into my shirt pocket and runs off again.

“Nice try, bastard!” he yells, his voice growing fainter with each step. “Have a nice day.”

7 Comments:

One of my favorites is to cover my facial orifices and tell them, "Excuse me, but I'm allergic to assholes." Damn mormons.

BTW, I've got a link to your blog on mine. Hope you don't mind. It's just easier for me to get here that way (cause let's face it; my favorites list is way too damn long). In case this scares you (if you're worried about my blog's content), you can come look and tell me to take it down if you want. It's all good.

someschmo.blogspot.com

So, obviously hot wife is hanging up in the right place now? No more embarrassing facts?

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Other Humans Write

Here are actual questions you asked the presidential candidates when they appeared on your show. To Bush: 'Were y'all spankers?" To Kerry: "Did you ever spank the girls?" To Bush: "Did you spank them?" To Kerry: "What did she do to get spanked?" Hey, Dr. Phil, keep it in your pleated pants. [GQ Magazine, Dec. 2004, pg. 372]